My first week in Massachusetts, I spread out my beach towel at Wingaersheek Beach.
All around me I hear the Massachusetts accent. The “aw” sound is distinctive, easily recognizable and so different than the “o” sound in words I know, south of the Mason Dixon line. There are clusters of people on blankets, under umbrellas, in beach chairs. A couple strolls by me toward the water, their hands linked together. I feel conspicuous, like anyone who might glance my way would pity me; a loser. All alone at what is obviously a glorious beach day.
I was sixty-three when my government service changed. I had worked in an area I enjoyed, public affairs. My office was located in the executive suite with wall to wall carpeting and a receptionist who screened my calls. Then, I was transferred to the corner of a mouse infested fifty-five-year-old garage. The person whom I replaced – in the facility’s garage – was being prosecuted for theft. Unable to fill the position because no one wanted it, I was assigned there. I shared a restroom with the maintenance crew, pumped gas and parked cars.
Since my salary was not reduced along with my circumstances, I stayed until I could retire with a pension. Then, I sold my house and moved to Massachusetts.
A year later, I obtain a summer parking pass for Crane’s Beach.
In early June, the sea air is cool as I spread out my towel. The crowd is sparse, there is no one in the water. A couple walks past. I can hear snatches of their conversation in the accent to which I have grown accustomed. When he lies on his side on their blanket, she sits perpendicular to him, resting her head on the side of his chest that faces her. It is so intimate; I can’t take my eyes off of them, until the shrill of a seagull makes me look up.
White wings spread out; he soars. I don’t see another anywhere. He lands near me. Folding his white wings onto his back, he has ribbons of gray feathers down each of his sides. The seagull cocks his head and takes a few web footed steps toward me before his spreads his wings out again and flies off.
Scanning the fluffy clouds, I cannot see him as I rise to walk along the water.
Caryn Coyle now lives in Massachusetts
In a recent BuzzFeed post, people shared their “Oh no, I’m old” moments and the results, as you would expect, were very hilarious/revealing/depressing. The worst one was the 42-year-old man who broke his hip in his sleep. Then he broke it again while doing the PT to heal and had to get hip replacement surgery. If you’re age 70 and over, allow me to remind you he is only 42.
A few weeks ago, I got wind of an art exhibition for veterans in my county. I debated whether to apply, partly because I’m not sure critics would view my stuff as “real art.” Anyway, I did apply for the exhibit, which is in May. They accepted me, but then I was miserable for a month worrying and fretting about how others might react to my embellished wood scraps.
Sixty-nine years old is a line of demarcation for me. In 1999, my mother, a widow, was sixty-nine years old when she eloped and moved from Western Massachusetts to Cape Cod with her new husband Ted, himself a widower. A new life with this new start.
How many times have you read that a large percentage of baby boomers (as in more than 20 per cent) have exactly zero savings for retirement? I know I’ve seen that figure quoted in numerous articles. So, it may come as a surprise that, according to Fortune magazine, the average boomer has a worth of $1.2 million! That means a large chunk, perhaps 80 per cent of boomers, have been socking away the savings for retirement and to pass along to their offspring.
When you were a kid did you ever do the thing, “I think I hear my mother calling”? It was a useful gambit when some bullies were threatening or a neighbor asked for help weeding her garden or a girl gave me the fish eye after a perfectly good joke. Well, I discovered a variation on the theme, the other day, when a guy at the retirement home tried downloading his sad family story. At first, I was polite and he took it as interest (or maybe he didn’t really care if I was interested…just needed to ventilate) as he recounted the sibling rivalry with a sister four states away. We all need to listen to others as we would have them listen unto us. So, I listened. Then he got onto his mother and then his brother. By then I had stopped nodding and ‘uh-huhing.’ I mean, there are professional people who get paid to listen to these kinds of tales-of-woe.
